And now Tom tries the barrel with the ramrod, lest there should be already a charge there—a piece of forethought that is sure to be loudly applauded by the public, not the less so because the impatience of the French officers is making itself manifest in various ways.
At length he rams down the cartridge, and returns the ramrod; which piece of adroitness, if done with a certain air of display and flourish, is unfailingly saluted by another cheer. He now primes and cocks the piece, and assumes a look of what he believes to be most soldier-like severity.
As he stands thus for scrutiny, a rather lively debate gets up as to whether or not Tom bit off the end of the cartridge before he rammed it down. The biters and anti-biters being equally divided, the discussion waxes strong. The French officers, eagerly asking what may be the disputed point, laugh very heartily on hearing it.
"I'll lay ye a pint of sperits she won't go off," cries one.
"Done! for two noggins, if he pulls strong," rejoins another.
"Devil fear the same gun," cries a third; "she shot Mr. Sloan at fifty paces, and killed him dead."
"'Tisn't the same gun—that's a Frinch one—a bran new one!"
"She isn't."
"She is."